


Blueprint

by aderyn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dream Logic, Post Reichenbach, Retirement, Sherlock's Coat, Wish Fulfillment, is alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:43:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aderyn/pseuds/aderyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Sherlock, three months gone, is sitting across from him, the coat folded over his lap, the scarf a bluewater cascade round his naked throat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blueprint

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to  quarryquest for the layers of London awake and dreaming.

_“In that blueprint, I wanted to speak_

_in a language_

_utterly other…”—Tom Sleigh_

He’s had a lot of dreams, the hopeful fantasies of youth, the anxiety blooms, the terrors of war, the sporting flight-chases of crime, the nightmares after Bart’s.

This one is different.  
  
Because Sherlock, three months gone, is sitting across from him, the coat folded over his lap, the scarf a bluewater cascade round his naked throat.  
  
In the dream John makes a drowned sound, reaches through the thickened air to see if the face is stone.

“John,” Sherlock says, “not before the case.”  
  
Oh, the voice is familiar, hoarser, older and infinitely tender, death and a cold at the same time, and John wants to wake him, tend him, tell him his dream-logic is impeccable his dream-face is beautiful and there's no surprise.

“I'm building a house,” John says, “for when we retire.”

The blueprints are on his knees somehow; there's a party somewhere, Harry’s laughter the way it was when they were children, Sherlock’s laughter when they were children, or no, when they were alive, on a tear, and the plasm of the city sluiced through and bubbled up like spring.

“Here,” Sherlock says.

John feels the dream of it, the wish-weight of the ferric tweed, the midnight scent of London picked with stars the arches of Vauxhall and the underbed mysteries of Baker.

A thrum in the threads like new blooms, ultraviolet.

“Keep it safe,” Sherlock says.

“Darling,” Sherlock says, and he must mean the plans, but he leans forward, a bow, ceremonial, hands the coat over like a folded flag: my _armour, my heart, Londinium, Britannia.  
_

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Beautiful blueprints](http://archives.williams.edu/blueprints/images/stetson01.jpg).


End file.
